I‘m quite sure that, in the four score years that I have been hanging around, I could count on one hand the number of farm-gate egg sellers that keep a resident rooster in their barn where the layers are kept.
It is believed, fact or theory, that the early morning crowing of a rooster, whether humongous or bantam size, stimulates the hen into laying more eggs than usual. This fact, theory or folly, is one in which we find no argument, as we quite often collect eggs numbering in the high 40s from our flock, which numbers a meagre 48.
My grandson dubbed our free-range resident rooster Chicken Little as, in fact, he is a chicken, and being a bantam, he is little.
His breed is perhaps on the difficult side to decipher, as he was found roaming, in foot-deep snow, in a parking lot with no one around, about three winters ago. After giving the catchers a half-hour cost-free workout chasing him about in the snow, he was eventually rescued.
I guesstimate him to be an off-coloured Sebright, as he has the drooping wings and square hen feathering in the tail that is a feature of that breed.
Chicken Little now thinks he owns not only the barn but the surrounding area as well. He will not hesitate to rake your shins with his two-inch leg spurs if one does not pay him attention. Each day he joins me over at my birdhouse and struts back and forth waiting patiently while I do the feeding there. Then, if I fail to throw him down a handful of whole corn, which he loves, he will jump at my leg and apply his spurs without hesitation.
Yesterday morning was no exception. I get forgetful at times and forgot to throw him his handful of corn. When I turned to walk away, bang, he hit my lower leg and, believe it or not, his long, sharp-pointed spur, pierced my jeans and my sock and left an inch-long tear in the hide on my ankle.
Live and learn, so the saying goes, and I have learned, and I’m sporting the wound to prove it.
As a passing thought, I dug up my tulip bulbs this afternoon. I had 10 of them given to me as a gift last fall. This is the time of year to dig them up. Put them in a tray and let them dry for a day or two. Then clean the dried loose refuse from them, place them in a cool, dark corner until mid-September, and then plant them again.
Actually, I hate tulips – give me a moment and I’ll tell you why.
I had the pleasure of growing up in a market garden. My parents were vendors at the Guelph Farmer’s Market for 37 years. We peaked just after the war with two acres of tulips. These were planted four inches deep, four inches apart, in rows that were eight inches apart. These were made with a one-furrow plough hauled by our dappled team of quick-stepping Percheron horses.
We dug tulip bulbs all through July, cleaned them off all through August, and planted them again in late September and early October. Not a job that pleased a double-digit preteen schoolboy. Though people drove for miles to see them in bloom, I grew to hate them more and more each year.
But the timing was with us. The Second World War had come to an end and folks wanted to celebrate by brightening up their yards. Having heard about us, via the grape-vine, we got a call from The United Bulb Company situated in Belleville, Ontario. “How many do you want?” my mother asked. “How many do you have?” was the reply. “Enough!” was my mother’s answer, “But make it worth our while, for it is a long way to drive from Rockwood.” “Bring me what you have,” was the reply.
That year, three trips were made to Belleville with large sacks of tulip bulbs in our well-overloaded sedan delivery. The following year, the trips were doubled, taking near all the tulips we had, leaving only a few left to plant. At the time, nothing could have made me happier.
But a week later, my father took me by the hand with him to the bank. I had never been to a bank before. This I remember distinctly, as the manager said, “I know you have come about your mortgage, and I am sorry to tell you we can give no extension.”
My father’s reply was, “Yes! I have come regarding my mortgage. I want to pay it off!”
It takes little imagination to see the astonished look on the banker’s face when my dad pulled from his pockets two large rolls of bills. One large enough to choke a cow and the other would gag an elephant. There was sufficient, when counted, to pay off the exact amount of the twice-extended mortgage.
Nevertheless, I still hate tulips.
Take care, ‘cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105